(no subject)
Astrid. Molly. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Carly. Elizabeth. Beatrice.
Sally snorted as she gave that tape a long look of superiority, as if it would suddenly sprout legs and a mouth and really, really small breasts. Sally was much prettier than anyone named Beatrice. Beatrice was a name that mothers gave to their plain little daughters so they would have a conversation topic at parties. ‘Oh, hello, have you met me, I’m Beatrice, isn’t that a funny little name?’
And on and on they went, the tapes in the Cupboard.
Why was she in the Cupboard? Well, it was a long story, but the gist of it was that she had come over because she just wanted to see the tapes (that’s what she would say if Susan opened the door. But then Susan, dear sensible Susan, would ask if Sally had meant the physical tapes themselves) because she needed to know the angles and the quality of the lighting to prepare for her starring role, just in case she ever did wake up and her neck had inflated like a dinghy in the ocean and she needed that good ol’ esteem boost that Permanent Patrick could give. Maybe something to do with confusion? She had thought it was the water closet, obviously! She had just stumbled in. No, that wouldn’t explain her cowardice in not coming out and Susan was sounding really pissed out there.
Politeness. Manners! Of course. After all, there certainly weren’t enough...
Patrick had slept with a woman named Sophia? “Harlot,” Sally muttered under her breath. “Might as well have smacked red lipstick all over the label.” Especially with a name like Sophia. Sally didn’t like foreign women. They were all so exotic and better-looking than her and they never seemed to care about their bodies or faces. It wasn’t fair.
She had a rule. The more time you put into yourself should correlate with how good you looked and exotic women from Spain and Italy and Greece (at least, when they shaved) were in clear violation of the Sally Scale of Beauty. Sally tentatively stepped closer to the door and pressed her ear to it.
No more shouting. Well, that was something. Either Susan wasn’t as pissed anymore or they were all having a really silent orgy. Time to come out of the closet and see the rest of that damn tape (and Patrick really was Mr. Pole-Vaulter Donkey-Man. Maybe she should have given him the upgrade a long time back).
One more deep breath and she would just step out and go, ‘Oh! Susan! I never even knew you were here! If I’d known, I could have shown you this lovely wood-panelling that Patrick’s done on his cupboard and of course that was the only reason I was in there! Hiding. Oh, tsk, Susan, don’t be paranoid, it’s so wrinkly on you’.
Out she went, hand on the door handle.
“Susan, about your bottom...”
But there was no Susan and her cellulite-covered, pert and puppy-filled perky little bottom wasn’t out there either. Neither was Steve or Patrick or Jeff (well, the last part was a positive, seeing as no-Jeff always contributed to a much less porn-riddled somewhere). She let go of the door and rested her hands on her hips, giving her surroundings a thoroughly unhappy glare. This wasn’t Patrick’s flat at all, it was a hallway. And not even a nice hallway. This was the sort of hallway you’d find in the flat of a man with back hair.
“Oh, fuckity fuck,” she muttered beneath her breath.
[First tag's got the explanation and the rest can just find her wandering. And never fear, she won't rip your self-esteem apart unless you really ask for it]
Sally snorted as she gave that tape a long look of superiority, as if it would suddenly sprout legs and a mouth and really, really small breasts. Sally was much prettier than anyone named Beatrice. Beatrice was a name that mothers gave to their plain little daughters so they would have a conversation topic at parties. ‘Oh, hello, have you met me, I’m Beatrice, isn’t that a funny little name?’
And on and on they went, the tapes in the Cupboard.
Why was she in the Cupboard? Well, it was a long story, but the gist of it was that she had come over because she just wanted to see the tapes (that’s what she would say if Susan opened the door. But then Susan, dear sensible Susan, would ask if Sally had meant the physical tapes themselves) because she needed to know the angles and the quality of the lighting to prepare for her starring role, just in case she ever did wake up and her neck had inflated like a dinghy in the ocean and she needed that good ol’ esteem boost that Permanent Patrick could give. Maybe something to do with confusion? She had thought it was the water closet, obviously! She had just stumbled in. No, that wouldn’t explain her cowardice in not coming out and Susan was sounding really pissed out there.
Politeness. Manners! Of course. After all, there certainly weren’t enough...
Patrick had slept with a woman named Sophia? “Harlot,” Sally muttered under her breath. “Might as well have smacked red lipstick all over the label.” Especially with a name like Sophia. Sally didn’t like foreign women. They were all so exotic and better-looking than her and they never seemed to care about their bodies or faces. It wasn’t fair.
She had a rule. The more time you put into yourself should correlate with how good you looked and exotic women from Spain and Italy and Greece (at least, when they shaved) were in clear violation of the Sally Scale of Beauty. Sally tentatively stepped closer to the door and pressed her ear to it.
No more shouting. Well, that was something. Either Susan wasn’t as pissed anymore or they were all having a really silent orgy. Time to come out of the closet and see the rest of that damn tape (and Patrick really was Mr. Pole-Vaulter Donkey-Man. Maybe she should have given him the upgrade a long time back).
One more deep breath and she would just step out and go, ‘Oh! Susan! I never even knew you were here! If I’d known, I could have shown you this lovely wood-panelling that Patrick’s done on his cupboard and of course that was the only reason I was in there! Hiding. Oh, tsk, Susan, don’t be paranoid, it’s so wrinkly on you’.
Out she went, hand on the door handle.
“Susan, about your bottom...”
But there was no Susan and her cellulite-covered, pert and puppy-filled perky little bottom wasn’t out there either. Neither was Steve or Patrick or Jeff (well, the last part was a positive, seeing as no-Jeff always contributed to a much less porn-riddled somewhere). She let go of the door and rested her hands on her hips, giving her surroundings a thoroughly unhappy glare. This wasn’t Patrick’s flat at all, it was a hallway. And not even a nice hallway. This was the sort of hallway you’d find in the flat of a man with back hair.
“Oh, fuckity fuck,” she muttered beneath her breath.
[First tag's got the explanation and the rest can just find her wandering. And never fear, she won't rip your self-esteem apart unless you really ask for it]